


Philosophy and Sushi

by WeebKing



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Durarara!!
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Dark Comedy, Drama, Gen, Suspense, Urban Fantasy, after long 5 years, here it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-02-27 16:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18743146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeebKing/pseuds/WeebKing
Summary: Izaya Orihara meets a peculiar model at a sushi restaurant. He takes an interest in her. (also in FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13280155/1/Philosophy-and-Sushi)





	1. The First Nibble

[Ask any Ikebukuro local about where to find the best sushi, and nine times out of 10 they'd answer Russia Sushi.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kJKwMjNnhUg)

Managed by a Russian ex-Spetsnaz trooper, unorthodox recipes such as borscht and pizza sushi persuade customers to come back for more. Reasonable prices mean people from all walks of life can enjoy Denis' well-made dishes; a policeman sits across a Yellow Scarf, CEO's exchange glances with students at dinner, and different people strike up conversations with one another.

" _Gotta hand it to Denis-sama, his crab meat's the best around here._ " Nothing filled Izaya Orihara's stomach like two Siberian sushi bowls during work break. Add some  _teriyaki_ sauce, and his tongue would taste ambrosia's flavor he wouldn't get anywhere else.

Taking a bite off his deep-fried sushi, Izaya noticed the girl next to him, staring at her own. It looked as if she was scanning her meal like a scientist with a microscope. "For someone of your stature to eat simple, homemade sushi, this world brings me new surprises every day."

"What'd I have to do to be you?" After a few seconds, she threw the roll at her mouth, gulping it whole. Engrossed in her sushi, she didn't notice Izaya, or anybody for that matter until he commented on her tastes.

He swore he's seen her style before. The girl's blonde hair was in pigtails, and her body exhaled expensive perfume. Hours and hours of makeup slathered her face. Her black tank top gave away her pale, white arms. Had her miniskirt been shorter, she'd be arrested for indecent exposure.

"Blend in and be grateful for the little things, that's a start," Izaya said. "By the way, are you familiar with the Ganguro girls, by chance? I bet you might be besties with them."

"Ugh. Posers, the lot of them." Six words greeted him immediately, before munching on her next sushi.

"I take it; you have strong opinions when it comes to fashion sense." He then pointed at the man not too far from them. Eating his venison sushi, the bald, burly fellow wore nothing but a white tank top and jeans. Soy sauce dripped from his two brass knuckles. "What can you say about his?"

Taking a glance at the thug, the girl leaned in near Izaya. "Hmmm, [realtalk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBxfJ0JTMhg)," She whispered. "He has much class as a country bumpkin swimming in cow shit for weeks." Her voice, though faint, dripped like acid corroding his eardrums. "The most well-dressed he'll ever be is on a funeral home."

He thought she would stop there, but she continued. "You know what? Right now, I can go to his place, and tell that to him. He'll land a hook in my pretty, centerfold face, but I'll also tell him I just repeated your words."

Izaya heard the girl's breaths grow heavier as she nudged him, directing his attention to everyone else. When her whispering used to feel like acid, it transformed to honey that moment. "Most of 'em want a piece of the guy. So, once we're done, they'll, like, take out their lead pipes and baseball bats-"

"[You want to try out Siberian sushi?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=We60ZX5C99I&list=PLYuu1nYpYTeK5BJX8SOvCWFSa9TVt3iLp&index=8&t=0s) I've got extra yen." Izaya cut in, leaving the girl's ramblings hanging. "Simon- _sama_! Four Siberian sushi bowls, please."

"Four Siberian sushi coming right up!" Simon immediately ran to the ingredients drawer to get  _nori_ leaves for his order. " _Пять минут!_ "

" _Спасибо_ , dear Simon- _sama_. " Izaya quickly responded. Ever the reliable server, he's confident he would come to their place in a jiffy. He's never seen Simon miss an order from him, or anyone in Russia Sushi.

"Yeah!..." A soft giggle came out of the girl, apparently satisfied with her ramblings. "Sorry, I tend to say weird stuff when my tummy's rumbling."

" _The way she voiced it, she was itching to do it."_ That observation stayed in the back of Izaya's mind when he asked for an extra serving of Siberian sushi. " _Too bad no one else heard her. She better know some self-defense, should anyone hear."_ With this in mind, Izaya produced a Post-It note and pain from his back pocket to jot down what she'll say next.

"Also, what make and fabric is this coat? I can send in a good word to Vogue Japan for it." The girl said, caressing Izaya's furry sleeves with her long, red nails. "When they see me wear it, it'll be in every #OOTD on Instagram. Who knows? Maybe we'll walk down Tokyo Fashion Week together."

 _Vogue Japan, Gyaru-inspired outfit, strawberry blonde pigtails…_ The puzzle pieces arranged themselves. Izaya knew almost all of the gyarus in the Ikebukuro area, but none carried the style so flawlessly like the girl. Her demeanor so far suggested confidence in her fashion sense unlike any other and marked disdain for plebeians who failed to meet her standards. Tone down her bizarre fixations, and she'd pass off as the  _gyaru_  queen around these parts.

"I should know who you are, but I'm not Izaya Orihara the preteen girl who follows fashion divas religiously," Izaya replied. "My sister Mairu is."

"Then you're missing out on  _a lot_. Junko Enoshima, by the way." The girl said, flipping her pigtail. "You said something about a sister; what's she like?

"Mairu's irrelevant right now." Izaya lets out a small laugh. "She's at home, bopping her head to those Korean boy bands nowadays."

Junko twiddled around locks of her hair, her pinky finger shaky. "All I'll say is: the less said about mine, the better.  _Juuuuust_  like the sushi I had earlier: bland, derivative, makes you wanna throw it to the garbage disposal and leave it for the rats!"

Both of them burst out laughing. The model concealed her embarrassment without him noticing, and Izaya visualized her figure of speech in his mind.  _"Now, this makes me wanna meet her sister."_

Simon glared at the two and politely asked, "You're ruining the other customers' appetites. Do you mind lowering your voice?"

"It's a free country; you can't stop me from saying what I want!" Junko snapped back. "I guess I'll lower my voice, so you'd focus on our delayed order."

Izaya followed suit, but in a calmer voice. "Junko's kind of starving, Simon- _sama_! She doesn't fully know what she's saying, so give her a break. She'd probably visit a local magazine a few minutes from now."

"Very well." The large, African-Russian chef went back to preparing sushi, making haste to follow the two's order. "Be more considerate of everyone else next time, please."

" _Fiiiiine_." Junko sulked, then turned to Izaya. "Hear me out, will ya? Imagine tasting sushi for the first time. The exquisite blend of  _sake_ and crab meat soothes your taste buds, and soy sauce livens your tongue's tip. Then, eat it for the next 100 times, and the taste vanishes from your buds. Can't a lady enjoy some variety?"

"Have you tasted Siberian sushi?" Izaya asked. "What about Venetian?"

"Lemme guess what's in Siberian sushi," Junko gently placed her finger under her chin and looked at Izaya's remaining sushi. All tone and emotion left her voice afterward. " _Nori_  sheets, Siberian taimen meat,  _kolbasa_  bits, top it all off with  _nikiri_ sauce and ginger garnish."

"That's the entire recipe! Some educated guesser, you are." Izaya marveled at how she accurately uncovered his favorite recipe's ingredients. This proved a new, interesting factoid worth nothing. " _Clearly, there's more to this girl I thought…"_

"Well, I had  _nikiri_  sauce back in San Diego.  _Kolbasa_ bits in Prague. Probably in a shit ton of places, too." Junko elaborated. "But Siberian's a combination I've never tried."

"43rd time in, and the taste still sticks until you use mouthwash. What's the best Japanese restaurant you've been to?" Izaya asked, probing Junko for more information about herself. "For me, it's here, Russia Sushi. Friendly staff, variety of sushi, fun conversations with anyone.

"None of them." The model frowned, looking dissatisfied at the place. Among all the things Izaya listed, she experienced none of them.

"Not even here, huh." He had nothing but glowing reviews for Simon's sushi. Junko's the first person he heard to speak poorly about it, but he wasn't one to judge opinions. "Was it the food? The atmosphere? The sanitation?"

"All of them tastes like cement!" Junko's frown grew deeper. Mushrooms sprouted from one side of her head, if Izaya trusted his eyes. "Why can't there be  _one_ appetizing sushi restaurant? I'd give sacks of yen for one good taste."

"I think I've found out your problem." Izaya gave her a cold stare. "You see, the brain's one wonderful and dreadful organ. I had someone with a migraine text me how they felt their brain's on fire. It's an untrue statement, you know why?"

In a flash, Junko's mouth turned to its normal shape. "Tell me something I don't know."

Izaya stroked his chin, making sure he knows his neuroscience. "The brain's got no pain receptors. Poke it, prod it, remove half of it and it'll feel nothing. Neither does it have taste receptors. It can't savor the taste of well-crafted food, nor spit out pungent trash in disgust." He then stuck his tongue out, and pointed at it. "We taste food with this…" - then moved his finger to his head - "and not this."

Junko raised an eyebrow while processing Izaya's words. " _Must have been the first time she's heard this. Or not,"_ the information broker thought to himself.

"Is our Siberian sushi ready yet? It's taking, like, an eternity." The model complained.

"Simon- _sama_ 's a fast chef, but he can't be at many places at once." Izaya then turned to the cashier-slash-sushi chef. " _Они готовы?"_

"A few minutes!" Simon replied, boiling a few batches of rice right after carving  _kolbasa_  meat into bits, all while juggling six other orders.

Just as Izaya grabbed his sudoku puzzle, Junko's phone rang. [Shrill, high-pitched pop music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSBq8geuJk0) blasted from the speakers and caught the attention of Russia Sushi's customers.

"Mute your phone, or I'll grab it and break it into a hundred pieces!" The bald man from earlier threatened, shaking his fist at the two. Two people brandished their knives and brass knuckles in response.

Junko picked up the incoming call, and visibly sighed at the caller's identity. "Not you again. What will you blabber about this time?"

" **Jarhead Sis** "

" **080-4353-3221"**

* * *

 

Mukuro took one last look at her groceries - eggs, sugar, almond milk, sandwich bread, rat poison and, finally, maple syrup.  _Things and Stuff_  recently had a sale, so she figured her considerable pay can afford them. It will be breakfast day tomorrow, and she didn't want to give her low-quality meals.

"Would you like to add anything, miss?" A young man in a camo jacket, his scanner ran through Mukuro's items, the register beeping each second.

"Do you sell picture frames?" Mukuro asked in return, only remembering what's #1 in her grocery list.

"Currently out of stock. Come back next week." Done with the maple syrup, the cashier put her goods in a paper bag with the same speed and precision.

"What about that over there?" The soldier pointed at the frame behind the register. In the frame were three men, standing near a blue car holding beer. Mukuro could tell the cashier was in the middle, recognizing his undercut and faint goatee.

"That's not for sale. Hate to judge you, but it's kind of weird that you're the first customer to ask about frames." The cashier responded. "Although, I know a store you can buy from." He moved near the window and showed her said store. Well-lit, jam-packed with goods and with two vending machines outside, Total Convenience Store seemed the better choice for Mukuro's needs.

"I'm new here, I'm sorry." Mukuro's response was as canned as an email template, yet the way she delivered it made her sound natural. She silently thanked Junko for Verbal Communication 101. "Thanks for the directions."

"No problema, miss." The cashier replied, coming back to his stall.

" _I may have to pay more than usual for a frame."_ Unlike Things and Stuff _,_  Total Convenience Store didn't have a sale, so she began to guess its price. " _3,500… 4,000… no, the best frame has to be 15,000 yen. A cheap one cannot do!_ "

Mukuro reached into her pocket, fumbling around for money. She knew she may have to dig deep to get a beautiful frame. Or sell a few mementos from her Fenrir service in Buyee, if she didn't have enough.

She felt her I.D., her trusted Cold Steel Trail Master, and her less-trusted Nokia 6350, but not her second wallet. Was she too preoccupied with pancake ingredients to notice it was missing? No, she triple-checked her belongings before shopping. Perhaps she misplaced it in gym? She could go back to Rakuei and search there. Junko stole it- she  _borrows_ it from time to time, and she has expensive tastes to satisfy.

"What's wrong, miss?"

Behind her, shoppers rushed through the shelves, taking whatever they needed. Carrying their goods with them, they formed a line to the cashier. Mukuro stood in the front, blocking everyone else when she called her sister's number.

"Junko, where did you put my other wallet?" She thought she must have found it outside their bathroom or dining room.

"You're ruining my conversation! Gah!" Junko sneered from the other end. "I wanted to get my sushi fix, so I borrowed it for a while. Besides, you've got your other wallet!"

"Conversation? With who?" Mukuro's eyes perked. Her sister's a social butterfly, different from herself who preferred sitting in the corner. For some reason, she preferred tall, black-haired guys. What is with them, she may never fully know.

"It's none of your business!" Her sister exclaimed. "Have you bought our groceries yet? You promised French Toast Friday tomorrow."

"Yes, and yes," Mukuro replied quietly. "Do you want me to pick you up when you're done?"

"And make me look bad in front of this guy? Sod off."

Mukuro sighed to herself in resignation. "I just wanted to buy this picture frame..."

"Fuck your frame! What are you gonna do with it, eat it? Dip it in ketchup and wash it down with Ramune?! Buy it next week if you want it so bad!" Junko barked. From her background, Mukuro heard a male voice saying 'Shut up!', then her sister's voice saying 'fine.'

"Where are you?" Mukuro unfurled her map of Ikebukuro and pressed her finger at local restaurants. "Mutekiya? Il Teatro? What about Hanamura's? Their noodles are good."

"Young lady, can you please move?" As the sisters talked, a middle-aged woman with a preschooler beckoned her.

A teenager lifting two bags spoke next. "If you're not buying stuff, get out!"

When Mukuro looked back, she noticed that the line now stretched two blocks from Things and Stuff. Young and old, groups of friends and single persons, the shoppers stood patiently waiting for her to finish her call. A few murmured among themselves to pass the time, and some others signaled at her to give way.

"Miss? May you please move out of the line?"

"Young woman, I have a ton of shit to buy!"

"Get the fuck out, dammit!"

Their cries grew the longer Mukuro stalled in front. But Junko's insults (and at times, flatters) bring her to a different world with only two of them in it. Absorbed into her conversation, her ears isolated nearby noise into the background, ignoring the rabble.

"...did you just buy almond milk? I'm allergic to nuts, dumbass!" 13th Junko insult this day.

"From what I remembered, almonds aren't nuts, at all."

"Well shit, you got something right for once in your life." The counter just hit 14th. Another one to take in stride.

"You… knew?"

"No wonder you flunked biology. Actually, I'll call you back. Later, my beloved pig-pen!" Two insults add up to 16! Don't all sisters disagree every once in a while? Under her breath, Mukuro thanked her for that trivia.

In the real world, the cashier talked with the shoppers to settle down before a fight breaks out. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, guys. But you have to keep waiting. Earth to cellphone lady, is anyone here?"

"I'm here, yes." Mukuro put her phone down and headed towards the exit carrying her groceries.

Relieved, the line quieted down, and the cashier went to scanning their purchases one by one.

Such is the life of Mukuro Ikusaba.

Moving from Kasai, she heard Ikebukuro would be a land of opportunity. A land where anyone can make a name for themselves. Where they can meet interesting people, and visit interesting places.

So far, she's been her sister's errand girl for two weeks. Junko wants to eat this brand of cereal, she pays for it upfront. Clothes needed for a photoshoot? Run to the nearest laundromat. Harassed by a creep? A few broken bones will make him go away for a while.

" _At least she appreciates me."_ Mukuro thought to herself, walking across Sunshine 60 Street wondering where to go next. Perhaps she could brush up her skills at a shooting range. A scoop of ice cream could cool her tongue. Or sit on a bench and observe people walking by.

But she had no time to lollygag, as her sister's eating sushi with a complete, total stranger. Sometimes, Junko got together with her fans who invited them to eat in any restaurant. Most of them kept civil during their meal, perhaps under threat of the Ultimate Soldier skewering them alive when they get too touchy.

Mukuro saw headlines of good-looking males offering girls alcohol, and she drew her own conclusions on what happened. What if this was what the stranger had in mind? Her sister's looks made her a tempting target. Junko knew some Krav Maga techniques she learned from her, but Ikebukuro's men towered over her. They can mangle and rip her to shreds, and she would be too far away to stop them.

The frame can wait. Junko's safety cannot. Sitting on a bench, Mukuro steeled herself for the moment she'd call back. Wait, what if they took her phone? How would she know what happened to her? What if they covered her mouth, and she can't understand her muffled words?

Mukuro was as stoic as the Ikefukuro Statue; even so, uneasy thoughts and questions eroded her mind from the inside.

* * *

 

"Here's your order, Orihara- _san_ : four servings of Siberian sushi." Simon left the bowls in Izaya and Junko's table. It's a strange recipe, she noted; ground-up salmon meat was a substitute for traditional sushi rice. A mix of  _kolbasa_ bits and ginger garnish added a peculiar taste to the meal, which activated her curiosity.

"You're right, Izaya, this is something new," Junko said. "Do you have a napkin? I don't wanna scald my dainty little fingers."

"Sure, princess." Fortunately, Izaya kept his napkin pack with him every day and handed her two pieces. "Can't say the same thing for your tongue."

"It's okay." Unbeknownst to him, Junko yearned for exactly that. Nothing better than a burning sensation to spice up your pain receptors. Wrapping the bowl with a napkin, she held a piece of taimen meat and took a nibble from it.

First impressions were everything when it comes to food. Depending on her mood, Junko relished the joy of tasting zesty meals or the despair of swallowing bitter slop. If the food was drab and tasted like cardboard, she spat it out and crushed under her heels until it disappeared. She found it more enjoyable than practically tasting nothing.

"Wow, this sushi's amazing!" The brew of flavors from the raw Siberian fish meat to the spicy ginger garnish dissolved in her mouth. The taste was exquisite! Her taste buds, well-pleased with the meal, hungered for more.

"Did you like it?" Inferring the answer, Izaya, nearly finished with his bowl, asked anyway.

"[Best sushi I've had in years!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAt4H-SGWgQ)" Junko beamed, halfway on her second. "Too bad I'll get bored of it eventually."

"Try my advice. Taste with your tongue, not with your brain." Izaya said as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

His profession led him to meet all sorts of professions and personalities. Some salarymen, some NEET's, many in-between. He chatted with histrionic mothers, met with short-tempered teenagers in person, and cut deals with all MBTI types.

But the girl's type was uncommon. He suspected it when he noticed Junko looking at her sushi, examining it for perhaps its ingredients and calorie content. Her constant tapping at the floor, and twirling her hair when Simon was busy. How she talked about her own sister, and practically yelled at the caller earlier (which he presumed had to be her).

Most people escape their boring lives using the Internet or TV, but Junko acted like she was bored with escapism. Being a couch potato or social media junkie could only go so far for her. Turned off by daily life, she hunted for new stimuli to process, new thrills to enjoy.

" _She'd start a riot here if she didn't get her sushi,"_ Izaya thought.  _"Though it'd be exciting! We get caught up in their brawl, maybe get a glimpse of phone or credit card numbers here and there…"_

Too bad there's someone else in Ikebukuro who frequently got involved in brawls. Smart and sensible people ran away once he charged in like a speeding tanker truck. After his rage subsided, he walked away, leaving a lot of broken vending machines in his wake.

" _Shizu-chan. Oh, him."_

Once the two finished their Siberian sushi, Izaya went to Simon and handed him his yen. " _Вы отличный повар, спасибо_! Here's my pay."

Taking Izaya's money, Simon pulled out his phone. "Miss Enoshima- _chan_ , can you take a photo with me? My niece Olga looks up to you so much!"

"Yeah, sure, whatever." Junko's already tired of the 25th time someone asked her for a picture. She had Mukuro pack a lot of disguises to walk around Ikebukuro without attracting paparazzi. Still, it was nice to treat her fans every once in a while. She raised her fingers in her signature V-sign and grinned.

Junko and Simon didn't notice, but Izaya smiled to himself too. At long last, he's discovered an interesting specimen. How would she react to this? What will she do when that happens? His mind has already devised multiple experiments to put her through.

And Izaya needed a lot of Post-It notes for her. After Simon's done with taking pictures, all that was left to do is ask for her number.

But Junko took the initiative. "You seem like an interesting guy to be with. What's  _your_ number?"

Izaya handed her a small note. "I'm not famous around here, so I can't let too many people know. Anyway, here's mine."

Junko blushed. "080-2211-9426. I gotta go, I'm 10 minutes late for my photoshoot!"

 


	2. Afternoon, Evening, Midnight City

Dark clouds began to form as Junko walked outside Russian Sushi[ smiling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eyyhtOrKPI). After a tedious day spent searching for restaurants, Siberian Sushi’s sweet savor made it all worth it in the end. As a bonus, she met a cool, knowledgeable guy to text with when she’s bored. 

So that rainwater couldn’t spoil her makeup and splash on her designer clothes, the fashionista opened her umbrella up, waiting for her sister Mukuro by the entrance. Her mind conjured more or less 150 establishments she could be at that moment: most likely, the shooting range on the behind the Sega store where she practiced her aim. Other possibilities included a dingy, second-rate diner anywhere where she ate by herself, _probably_ the adult store near the Metropolitan Plaza looking for sibling love videos. She chuckled to herself at the mental image of the last option.

Calculating how long she talked with Izaya during her meals, it must be 4:52 P.M.; exactly 58 minutes, 11 seconds and 748 milliseconds from the time Mukuro called her. Now that she thought about it, not bringing her Rolex that day didn’t bother her much. A quick look at her phone confirmed her guess: it was, indeed, 4:52 P.M.

That’s 2 hours and 38 minutes of free time before going to the GyaruChan magazine for her weekly photo-shoot. 4 hours and 38 minutes before she sits at Taka Arisawa’s couch. Junko’s never heard of him, but from minimal research, the talk show host was a big deal in Ikebukuro media. The resident ‘starmaker’, anyone who appeared in his show became the city’s topic of conversation overnight. 

Perfect for her plans.

“Junko! Did he hurt you? Steal your belongings?” Just as Junko thought of texting her agent, she heard Mukuro’s voice out of nowhere. Running through pedestrians along the way, Mukuro sprinted to her when she saw her sister’s pink and yellow umbrella and tossed a yellow bag in her direction. “Here’s your bag you told me to bring earlier!”

“At least you cared more about that frame,” Junko snapped back, effortlessly catching her bag. “But I’m fine, no thanks to you.”

Mukuro couldn’t respond with anything more than an awkward silence. Her sister was completely correct; she left her in that restaurant with a dubiously-intentioned stranger. She sighed at herself, silently thanking whatever deity was out there that nothing happened to Junko. 

And then she heard the familiar pitter-patter of rain. 

Almost by instinct, Mukuro hopped under Junko’s umbrella, taking shelter from the volley of raindrops all over the city. The raindrops splashed into the ground, but Junko’s annoyance grew into a storm. _“You have the stronger immune system! Fuck off!”_ She nearly said as she thought of pushing her away, but relented in the end. 

“Where were you?” Junko asked, glaring at Mukuro.

“I was looking for you,” Mukuro responded like a little girl denying she stole the cookie jar - as chocolate chips fall out of her mouth.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Junko called her bullshit, which she coincidentally shared her smell.

“But I looked for you, right after I bought French toast.” Mukuro meekly answered.

“What store was it?” Junko asked. “Let me guess: Things and Stuff?”

“Yeah.”

Just as she responded in the affirmative, a black motorcycle zoomed near them. Junko barely caught a glimpse of the rider due to their unnatural speed, but from what she made out, they wore an all-black jumpsuit that complemented their pitch-black bike. Their blue-yellow helmet seemed to have… cat ears? She’s seen weirder things. 

Six police motorcycles pursued the mysterious rider, their wailing sirens playing brass for the orchestra of typical city life. The shrill noise distracted Junko from a police bike’s wheel splattering mud at both of them. Mukuro shielded her sister with her body, causing the puddle to blanket her instead. Now a walking mass of dripping, sticky wet soil, combined with what can only be described as dried dog feces, the foul stench grew too much for Junko bear, causing her to vomit nearly-digested rice and meat.

“Shit! You’ll need industrial-grade bleach to clean yourself up!” With two hands, Junko covered her nose. The pedestrians followed her example, moving away as far as possible.

“At least you didn’t get dirty.” Mukuro wiped a slab of mud off her face with her handkerchief.

“But you are right now, and it’s making me wanna plug my nostrils in forever!”

“I can do it for you.” Mukuro offered.

“Get your hands off me! Jesus, is this how you treat your Fenrir buddies in boot camp?! You ought to be the first person to walk on Uranus! God, Uranus jokes are so predictable...”

“What do you mean? I don’t have astronaut training...” Puzzled, Mukuro asked. ”Except for survival skills, but space isn’t the Middle East.” 

“I’m not explaining the joke. Work that out for yourself.” Junko’s fingers never left her nostrils once since mud covered her sister. “Which reminds me. What do you need a picture frame for, of all things?”

“That frame’s for something important.” Mukuro blushed. “I just… I just wanted to treasure our memories together.”

“That’s all? I guess you should’ve said that earlier. I can’t believe you had me thinking you were looking up stepsibling love films. Muku-chan, I’m not a judgy type, unless you get your fashion sense from Comme des Garçons.” 

No reaction from Mukuro. Junko normally dismissed this as stoicism she learned from Fenrir, but her facial veins remained red. Two of her default emotions when she’s with her at the same time. Blushing stoically, an oxymoronic emotion if there ever was one. 

 _“But it’s not a word for a reason._ ” Mukuro clearly held her emotions back, but the latter was winning the psychological tug-of-war. There has to be a word for this, it’s just at the tip of her tongue-

It hit her. She knew the perfect word to describe what her sister felt. That’s her own default emotion, for Christ’s sake! 

[ _Saudade_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ku_WZoTtT8Q) . Missingness. A deep yearning for things one lost. “ _No direct Japanese translation can do the original Portuguese word justice,”_ Junko presumed.

In fact, she ran out of words to describe _saudade,_ having felt it every day. But what if she tried to express its meaning in the best way instead? Come up with the perfect mixture of words and sensory detail? That would entertain her for the time being, and distract from her monotonous existence.

 _Saudade._ The first girly dress Mom forced her to wear for a gathering. The first half-eaten sandwich she scavenged from the trash with Mukuro when they lived in the streets. Hell, the first menstrual blood-stained napkin she forced down a bully’s throat might count.

Different events, same principle - new experiences. It was so boringly simple, wasn’t it? People learn a few things from them, enhance their curiosity. Junko remembered how her first-grade teacher told her to “get out of her comfort zone, every once in a while.”

Earlier, Izaya told her the same thing. Taste with her tongue, not her brain. Don’t drown yourself in statistics and variables and constants, and enjoy something for what it is.

But what can she do if her planet-sized comfort zone follows her wherever she goes? What can she do if all she perceives are statistics and variables and constants?

_“Maybe I can tell Muku-chan to roll in the mud and squeal like the diseased pig she is. She’ll only ask how long she should do it. I could record it with my phone!”_

Mukuro hobo perfume - the term for her normal smell, worsened by mud - snapped her back to reality. Cars, vans, bikes surrounded them at every turn. It stopped raining, only for diesel exhaust to take its place. Mashed with the loud chatter of pedestrians, the ear-splitting symphony of horns and the dual stench of Mukuro mud and exhaust fumes thrashed her senses every second she stood there.

“Fine, you can buy that stupid frame.” Junko let Mukuro’s negligence go unpunished. Just this _once_. “Just make sure you get my picture where my face has the most space!”

“Yes, Junko-chan!” Mukuro’s smile shone through the thick grime covering her. Had it been nighttime, she would have looked like a swamp monster hungrily staring at its prey. A few nearby pedestrians took the hint, taking out their phones and capturing pictures of this unsightly ‘creature’.

“Muku-chan, let’s get home before we end up on the news, or worse, some weirdo’s conspiracy blog.” Junko mused.

* * *

_7:00 p.m._

Yet another photoshoot for GyaruChan magazine. Ugh. 

As far as Junko knew, GyaruChan only spawned amateurs. Imitators. Basic bitches who strut with tennis shoes and take selfies wearing bomber jackets, but never soak their dresses swimming against the tide. The Ganguro girls Izaya mentioned earlier epitomized that. She snickered at the irony of a counter-cultural trend being part and parcel of Japanese pop culture. How despairful! All she had to do was rub that fact on these trend-hoppers’ faces. Then she can look forward to the day the Internet smothers print media on its sickbed with its long dress. 

Until then, she’s bound by the favor she made with Shion Yamamura, GyaruChan’s editor-in-chief. A woman in her early twenties, she was familiar with the current millennial zeitgeist when it comes to fashion. Junko was the most logical choice as she was costly; convincing her to be the magazine’s cover girl cost her 700,000 yen.

Shion thought she’d have to live the next four months of her life in another tenant’s cupboard to survive, but Junko rejuvenated GyaruChan’s sales enough to earn back more than half of the cost.

“Late by an hour and thirty.” Shion’s disapproving look said everything. “I have to admire your punctuality.”

“Better late than never. Did you think my schedule wasn’t tight? ” The model placed her bag of clothes on the table. “I didn’t know this was how rush hour was like in Ikebukuro.”

“But you made our photogs wait forever for your ass to show up! You wanna know the only thing stopping me from replacing you? Legions of your mindless fans!”

 _“None of what she said was incorrect. I gotta admire her keen eye for detail.”_ Junko chuckled to herself. _“She’s got one vital thing to work on, though: patience.”_

The editor-in-chief leaned near her and whispered. “What if someone posted your dirt on Twitter?”

“Would they believe it, though?” Junko replied but softening her voice so only Shion can hear. “You underestimate their gold medal-level mental gymnastics. They won’t fathom their beloved queen doing what you accuse her of.”

“Not without cold, hard proof.” Shion countered. “You gain much from our partnership as I do. GyaruChan rakes sales, social media likes; we’re currently number #1! You, on the other hand, have benefits you can’t get anywhere else.”

“What do I benefit from posing for a third-rate fashion magazine catering to a specific demographic?” Junko asked.

After seconds of thinking it through, Shion secretly slipped a note in her pocket. “The next time you have bad publicity, share this.”

The editor-in-chief wasn’t hard to read; it took 2.32 seconds for Junko to analyze the note’s contents. She was always in the loop regarding gossip, but ironically, she was more of a listener than a deliverer. Junko preferred 100% truth, secrets that can ruin someone’s career, but can do with 85% and the rest fudged up a bit. Mostly true, but wholly accurate rumors do more lasting damage than plain hearsay.

“Anything else? Dirt doesn’t pay my bills.” Junko asked with a steep frown. “I grace your tab- oops, ‘magazine’ with my presence for a measly sum of money and you think that piece of paper is gonna convince me to wave and smile for your covers?”

Yamamura paused; she knew what she paid for, and what to expect. An anonymous photographer’s broken camera after a photoshoot with Junko. A magazine model who could’ve made the May cover, if her scandalous pictures didn’t get viral on Twitter. A magazine editor who came home to his apartment room littered with toilet paper. Who knew what will happen to her? As much as she had other people’s secrets, she had her own. Secrets that could leave her broke, penniless and forced to donate her body to Yagiri Pharmaceuticals for money.

“That scoop is nothing but ice cream left on a bench on a hot, sunny day. I’d buy another one. Ever tasted Häagen-Dazs? They have this cool Japan-only flavor, Squid Ink Sundae. It’s kinda like what Walker-san would’ve loved. He eats it with someone else now, and I know her name and address!” Junko leaned near the editor-in-chief’s ears and whispered. “My web has more connections than yours, and you just flew into it, Yamamura-chan.”

Upon hearing the name Walker, Shion’s eye twitched. “Whatever. Just suit up already. Full Metal Alchemist is on; I’ve been watching paint dry for hours!”

“No problem, boss.” Junko carried her luggage and went to the dressing room. “Oh, I know just how it ends. Ed ends up with-”

“ _Just shut the hell up and get dressed!_ ” Shion let her temper get a hold of that moment. She hadn’t even started the series!

“Alrighty then, boss.”

Inside the dressing room, Junko had an[ epiphany](https://youtu.be/2-aWEYezEMk?t=18) when she put on a floral print shirt: Ikebukuro wasn’t as boring as she thought it would be.

Given her… particular temperament, she loathed staying in one place for a long time. When not traveling through European towns, she would pace around a city back and forth, noting what she saw, felt, heard, smelled and tasted. 

But it didn’t take long until those sensations became all too familiar for Junko. The sun rose in the east and set in the west as per usual. Hot coffee cups seared her fingers, and ice packs helped reduce the pain. Cicadas’ buzzing songs took her back to summer vacations in Austin and Osaka. Mukuro’s smelling like Rubbish Island on her visits.

So what was it, exactly, about that batch of Siberian sushi?

Junko never tasted it before, but she could say the same thing about every single food item she tasted from infancy. Sure, it was an unconventional recipe, just not all that novel judging by the cuisine Junko tasted in her travels. She could name three meals far more bizarre than Siberian sushi: Mexican escamole, South African beef tongue, and balut. _Especially_ balut. Give or take a couple of weeks, and the sushi’s unique flavor evaporates into tasteless foodstuff. 

Her mind came up with one theory: it’s not the sushi itself for the most part, but with Izaya… that was his name, right? Doesn’t sound Japanese at all, more like Catalan. Whatever his parents were on when they named him as an infant didn’t matter. His fur coat, though, that was the stuff of Instagram #OOTD’s. She didn’t want to admit it, but her trade leopard-print coat looked like a filthy towel compared to it. 

From what Junko had observed of him so far, the tall, black-haired, intellectual guy sounded like someone she’d DM when she felt bored. Someone who’d share _soba_ noodles and sushi with her for lunch and snacks, before strolling through Ibaraki for his nature-themed panorama. Someone who took a psychology class not to get a job or understand himself more, but to lead unsuspecting people into wild goose chases for his amusement. 

 _Analysis: 100 complete. 80-90% accuracy… not again._ Never once did her accuracy rating go below 50%. Not that it was a useless gift; it helped in popularizing fashion trends every four or five months. Going to shopping sprees after winning bets didn’t hurt.

Was she wrong before? She didn’t have an excuse like Nostradamus’ writings, vaguely-worded segments a 16th-century Frenchman wrote and reinterpreted to mean any world event. Instead, her eyes processed data from her senses, transmitted to her 100 petabyte brain for processing. What she saw was what she got. 

 _That sushi you thought to be flavorless gunk… that was unexpected, though._ For once, she unplugged her brain and let her tongue do the tasting. Just as Izaya said. 

Siberian sushi wasn’t that bad. No, no, _no_ , those words didn’t suffice. Junko couldn’t calculate how Russian fish marinated in pickled ginger and sweet soy sauce brought life back to her taste buds. She marked Russian Suhi’s location into her memory to stop by anytime she craves for that recipe. She wanted more. She needed more.

But, unfortunately, Junko didn’t live on food alone. All those times she spent looking pretty in front of cameras and adoring fans made her famished for another kind of pleasure. One she prized above everything else, even her own life. 

People have different words for it: anguish, uncertainty, despondency, but those words lack the same oomph her favorite has -[ **despair**](https://youtu.be/XBFfFmWcPQM?t=143). The word alone made her mouth water, her saliva dropping to her ripped jeans’ holes. She held herself, containing her near-orgasmic glee as she moaned voicelessly at the air. Good thing she locked the door or another model may open it and be baffled at the sight. 

 _Not causing a brawl at the sushi restaurant was a wasted opportunity. Lesson: sow despair with a full stomach next time._ Junko saw herself back at Russian Sushi, amid a free-for-all where burly brutes bash each other’s brains in with baseball bats. Black eyes and broken jaws were the masks in this savage masquerade. As she was the only maskless attendee, one of those butt-ugly gangsters landed a right hook in her left eye, and the rest of them smacked her like a human piñata. Her fandom then launched a GoFundMe and donated thousands of yen or euros or dollars to her treatment! She had no schedules to worry about when all she did was lay around mummified on a hospital bed. Muku-chan broke Ikebukuro news upon shooting up the restaurant, riddling that Russian chef and hapless civilians with bullets as revenge.

Such despair! Such ecstasy! She stuck to the wall, practically pleasuring herself at the chaos and carnage she would’ve wrought. Had it been more intense, she would’ve torn out her clothes and squeaked like a nest of cartoon mice in a cheese factory.

There was one tiny problem: it all felt, what was the word? That’s right, artificial. 

So many possibilities, so little time: the curse of being a fashion guru and despair guru. Why settle for self-pleasure when you can find it everywhere? A few knocks at the door and a forceful “[ Are you done yet?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi8839yopoM)” proved that statement, but at least she’s fully dressed for the photo-shoot. Right after she wiped off the drool from her mouth and the floor with her handkerchief to not smudge her photos and her figure.

* * *

_"Thank Kami-sama for Monday, since it’s that time of the week again: Monday Night with Taka Arisawa!”_

It felt good to hear the words his fans eagerly waited for every week.

Everywhere else, People associated Monday with humdrum work schedules and bad afterparty hangovers. Students heave their sleep-deprived bodies out of bed to walk to school. Office-goers, far from their bosses’ earshot, wished they can fast-forward the day. 

But one man from Ikebukuro sought to change all that. Renting a huge studio, Taka Arisawa invited actors, authors, and animal waste personnel to talk about their new projects or experiences. After a while, he realized he became too similar from other talk show hosts in the country, so he branched out to different topics to avoid accusations of plagiarism.

It’s actually been three months since the last time a celebrity sat in his gray IKEA couch. For the past Mondays, he interviewed a farmer whose horse gave birth to a six-legged foal, did a night covering a convention for people named Ryusei, and even let D.I.C.E.’s ‘Supreme Overlord’ Kokichi Ouma talk about his plans for taking over Ikebukuro. Indeed, local teenagers sent 30-second clips of them to his website for a chance to appear in a future episode.

When Junko’s agent arranged a visit to his talk show, Arisawa did not let that opportunity slide. He had his team bombard social media with news and tweets of #EnoshimaAtMondayNight, and bought multiple TV ads to inform the model’s large fandom of the fact. 

This was the night. When the clock hit 8:50 P.M., bright lights flooded the Monday Night studio and the cheerful theme song played from the speakers. The camera focused on Taka Arisawa, wearing a 

“ **Gooooooooooooood evening, men, women, and pets of Tokyo ciiiiiiiiiiiity!** ” He howled into the microphone and the studio audience responded with raucous applause. “Tonight, I’m in Ikebukuro talking to none other than Junko Enoshima, #1 Instagram fashion influencer. Dubbed the ‘Gyaru Muse’, she’s been a trailblazer in the modeling industry for the past years!”

[ The camera panned to Junko as she strutted to the couch to the audience’s claps and cheers filling the entire studio. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8zhMyrwb8g) Some fans even raised their placards with “DATE ME” or “KEEP SLAYIN” or “WE STAN D 1 AND ONLY QUEEN”. Too bad Junko’s phone wasn’t on - she would’ve recorded them and play them back while working out. 

 **“** Good evening, I guess… Arisawa- _san_.” Junko greeted the host. “Not an obsessed fan of your show, but I liked your coverage of gang violence in this city. I just wonder, does your place have bodyguards? I mean, some thugs out there may hate how you portrayed them on TV.”

“For the record, absolutely! But we’re not talking about insert-color-here Scarves tonight. So,” Arisawa coughs, “First on the list: Rumors say Shunji Iwai offered you Yuuhei Hanejima’s leading lady role for his next movie. Has he briefed you on the details yet?”

“ _The_ Shunji… Shunji Iwai?” Junko raised an eyebrow, “Damn, I haven’t checked my emails lately; I spent three weeks skiing in the Alps. Spent the next week drinking garlic soup.” Junko pantomimed shivering in the cold, then ‘sneezed’ at her handkerchief. Laughter came out from the audience and the laugh track. “I also hear scammers are getting better at pretending to be royalty or some tech worker, so you can’t blame me for not wanting some criminal to steal my credit card info.”

“That’s understandable. But, surely you’ve watched _All About Lily Chou-Chou_ or _The Kon Ichikawa Story_?” Arisawa asked, making sure he got those titles right. He didn’t want another storm of angry comments like the time when he mispronounced Hideo Kojima’s name.

“I… guess I loved _The Kon Ichikawa Story_. The first wasn’t too shabby, either. I trust Iwai-san to cast me in a good role.” Junko flipped her right pigtail. “I’d like to suggest one that isn’t just eye candy, where you just stand around and make the male protagonist look good. Clichéd romantic interests are soooo 90’s.”

“I have no way to confirm whether the director was Shunji-san or not, but I do believe a capable director will figure out the best role for you. Believe me, your fans are gonna storm the theater on opening day!”

“I sure hope so. Personally, I would love to appear in a horror movie; I don’t care which role, the slut who dies first or the virgin who survives in the end. Hell, switch them up, play with movie tropes a bit. I’ll do fine in either role. Oh, and screenwriters? That’s a free writing tip there.”

“Good luck in your acting career! I’ve got faith you may one day end up in Hollywood. Who knows, you may win an Oscar! Even visit Cannes in the meantime!” Arisawa

“An Oscar is overrated. To be blunt, I’d rather receive a Razzie Award! Bad publicity is still publicity, am I right, Arisawa-san? But should the Academy hand me a statue of a naked guy in gold where I recite a scripted speech thanking friends and family and fans who saw my movie 11 times in a row, I’d be a moron to refuse it.” Laughter came out from the laugh track and the audience. Though not out loud, Arisawa thanked the sound crew for getting the Razzie-ignorant crowd to split their sides. Whoever came up with the idea to tune the sound file enough to be soft. “That being said, I just checked my mail earlier, no such director has messaged me yet. But I’m open for offers, so just hit me up for further details.”

“Now that’s out of the way, one of your fans sent us this picture of you and a male acquaintance in Niigata.” The program displayed a screencap of Junko’s Instagram post a week ago. It depicted the model in her casual, Hello Kitty-inspired dress with a pizza slice in her mouth and said male acquaintance with a dirty white shirt grouching along in T-Mall Yokohama. “Gotta admit, you’re quite the public person. In Ikebukuro alone, there’s a ton of people who want their grubby hands on you, and all it takes is your present address. Now I wonder, do you have a bodyguard? How do you deal with creeps and weirdos?”

“The block button is, by far, the best innovation in social media in this present decade. Forget about clones or flying cars: I wish a button like that exists in real life! Right now I just tell them politely in the most delicate, non-offensive terms to fuck off. Too bad certain troglodytes will ignore your blocks and restraining orders and press on anyway. Oh, you just mentioned a bodyguard, didn’t notice that... ”

* * *

[Mukuro noticed how Junko didn’t mention her until the last second on TV.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MytGLO7iqhI)

Lying on the couch with a few bottles of Red Bull and bowls of instant _ramen_ , Mukuro tuned into Taka Arisawa and focused entirely on her sister. When Junko appeared on television, she wrote down the exact hour and minute the talk show would go live. She rushed to the studio to join the audience, or if unable to, recorded the interview with her phone. A burglar who managed to nab one of her cellphones found 500+ clips of Junko in her gallery. Mukuro got her phone back. The burglar remained missing to this day.   

She would’ve feared for her sister’s life if it weren’t for their apartment’s proximity to the Monday Night studio. Junko can easily walk her way there, and Mukuro can watch over her with her M24 rifle from a dimly-lit window. 

Tonight, she decided to go to Arisawa’s show in person to look out for her sister from afar. She felt guilty over abandoning her in that sushi restaurant, and this was her way of making up for it.

Another reason was that she was running out of funds. Ever since she arrived at the city, she mailed her resume to any employer she could contact. Junko was right: nobody in their right mind would hire someone dumb, ugly and smelly. Not even butchers or garbage collectors. 

 _“_ _¥_ _600 for laughing along to what Junko or the host says? Gotta take what I can.”_ Mukuro thought to herself. Dressing her best: a green shirt with an ironic quote in it, camo pants, and a blue beanie hat (Junko bought it for her as a gift), she arrived early to the studio only to find all the spots were taken.

“ _...had my own Ricardo López one time. Late 30’s, basement dweller, human hairball type. Do you know how many times he’s PM’d on Facebook and Instagram every day?_ ” Junko held up ten fingers, then two on her left hand. “ _Exactly. I kept blocking him, but somehow he kept asking me to date him through sockpuppets. The human hand didn’t evolve to click on computer mice for a long time, so I got sick of blocking him. Also, he wasn’t just the stalker I had at that time. I think there were eight others…”_

To be dumb, ugly and smelly in that particular order, as Junko-chan said, might have been a blessing in disguise. Nobody dared to lay a finger on Mukuro and those who did end up with their arms in casts.

_“...he never backed off. At all. Good God, it must have been as normal for him as taking a shit or something. So I asked my sister to deal with him. ‘Deal with him’ in this case meant ‘hope he’s civilized enough to listen to a bunch of strong words’. I replied to him with my time and address, but I was at my friend’s house watching This is the End. My sister was home, and predictably, he snuck through the window...”_

Being the smarter, cuter and more fragrant twin, as she always described Junko, came with its own dangers and downsides. She set her music player at a high enough volume to block out catcalls on the street. The breaking point was the time a mugger snatched her Chanel purse containing $7,500 at the mall, while Mukuro was in the restroom after a curry meal. From then on, she never left her side unless she had pressing errands to attend to.

 _“...the guy never bothered me again._ (‘What did your bodyguard do?’) _Ask her, she was there 24/7, guarding our apartment and watching out for wannabe thieves. She cooks my breakfast, lunch and, dinner. She clings to me like static on my designer clothes, but damn if she doesn’t know how to shock. You can’t ask for anybody better. I sure as hell know I can’t._ (‘You must have the best sister in the world.’) _Your words, not mine, but you hit the mark, right there._ .. _”_

Mukuro’s eyes gleamed. When Junko complimented her, supposing it wasn’t in a  sarcastic manner, it must have meant she’s done an exemplary deed. This was one of those rare moments. She joined the on-screen audience in applause, wishing she somehow made it inside. The other guests in the room, presumably fans of Junko, cheered along. The staff in the reception room stared at Mukuro, but their eye daggers failed to cut her cheering. 

After French Toast Friday, Mukuro decided to put all of her efforts into finding a job to save for the best picture frame to put up. Junko may have berated her for focusing on that frame more than her, but she promised herself to save the biggest part for Junko.

All to cheer her up and make her day.

* * *

" _.._.Oops, we got sidetracked yet again! Speaking of your male friend, it’s probably the first time you’re seen together in public. Can you give us a rundown on who he is? He must be someone important to you.”

“He’s not a public person; the only place you can find his name is on a scientific journal. That, and he’s too cooped up with his Ph.D. to come here.” Arisawa, the audience and perhaps TV watchers gasped at the revel.

“I’d say you have a fantastic choice in guys, to be honest.”

“I… wouldn’t describe it that way. It’s more like I hit the jackpot; I threw a net on an ocean, and it turned out the biggest fish was the goldfish you had all along. Speaking of goldfish: fun fact; the whole idea that goldfish can only remember stuff for three seconds? Complete B.S., he said.”

“Interesting. How did he prove it?”

“He and his friends ran a little experiment a year ago. They rang a bell near the tank each time they dropped fish food on it, then the fish would swim there and eat them. After a while, the goldfish associated the sound with a free meal. This went on for a week, two weeks, a month, then five months. Every time they rang it, the fish swam to the exact spot. Kind of amazing, when you think about it.”

“What was that test for? Maybe they can run that experiment with my cats. Or my pet turtle, if they want.”  This reminded Arisawa of the scientist who boasted of successfully engineering ‘catgirls’ by the next decade. Hopefully, he didn’t have to leave hours of footage on the cutting table to avoid the dreaded censors.

“A cousin he didn’t know he had until he messaged him that with a P.S. that said ‘send it to 10 friends or bad luck will befall him’. He replied with a 50-page research paper on goldfish memory he wrote from that test, adding he’s not one for chain letters. He got blocked, but I never forgot that.”  
“He’s clearly a smart guy, and boy, I think a lot of guys could only dream of being in his position. Do you two talk often? Does he use scientific jargon in conversations?”

“It’s kind of ironic that a guy whose thesis deals with memory issues forgets to set his alarm for 8:00 p.m. where we’re supposed to chat. I get it, he's a busy man, working on getting accepted to Stanford. But a quote I found said, 'Absence sharpens love, presence strengthens it.’ ”

“Now, I don’t know you two very intimately, but I can’t presume he’s forgotten about you at all. He probably wishes he could drop that stack of papers and pick up his phone and call you.”

“Guess he should’ve done it more often. Hell, my sister’s way more physically present, and she wasn’t always like it. God, what is with me most people just don’t think I’m worth their time?”

* * *

 

Junko talked on and on and on to satisfy Arisawa and the audience, and the host responded with his own comments. More of what the two said could have been transcribed, but she herself didn’t pay much attention to the words that came out of her mouth. To her, they were nothing more than verbal pablum to fill the air between commercials and give the masses her ‘hot’ takes.

 _“...you’ve been a fascinating person, Miss Enoshima. I hope you’ll come back here in the future! I wanna know more about your trip to Crete. For a sneak peek of next week’s guest, he started as a lowly farmer from Cambodia and made his way to the top of Ikebukuro’s tattoo scene...”_ were the last things Junko heard from Arisawa as she headed out of the building.

 _“What a boring Monday night,”_ Junko thought. The host got what he wanted: become the talk of the city for a week before the next guest. She didn’t; after the mandatory keep up appearances ritual she immediately went to the vending machine and downed an entire can of Pepsi. A gulp of carbonated soda always put her boredom to rest, even for a while.

Quenching her thirst, she found Mukuro in the reception room and sat beside her. “You have more money with you? Let’s go to Hanamura’s tonight; best noodles in Tokyo.”

“I’m sorry, Junko, I spent it all on French toast ingredients.” Mukuro froze and rummaged her wallet for coins. “M-Maybe we can try the Korean diner instead? It’s cheaper.”

“You say that like I have a taste for flour soup or rice cakes. I lost them months ago.” Junko bit her lip and clenched her fist, bottling her rage as the two walked out the door. “But honestly, I’d rather eat a whole tub of flour than listen to that windbag blurt out dull questions.”

The only good thing that happened this day seemed to be the Siberian sushi from that Russian restaurant. The zest she felt from Siberian sushi, sadly, lasted for a little while. Even so, her taste for exotic food had always been a poor imitation for despair. There was always the option of starving yourself for a week, provoking her gastric acids to digest her own stomach while she slowly wasted away. Stand in front of a fridge packed with all kinds of food but refuse to pick anything from it.

But doing so would sacrifice one of her greatest assets - _not_ what boys look at and imagine their faces landing on. Her days of all-expenses-paid trips and celebrity dinners didn’t come cheap; they depended on how many people paid for her pretty face to plaster their magazines and billboards. Not wanting a rival to nab her for themselves, GyaruChan didn’t skimp on her salary, so she remained financially secure unless she bought the latest smartphone model. 

This doesn’t mean she can’t spoil herself, or her sister a little. 

“Where is that diner, again?” Junko asked. “Hopefully- shit, no, no, no, **perhaps** they serve great _bulgogi_.”

Mukuro showed her the Ikebukuro map. “This says five blocks from here, across the Metropolitan Hotel. I have enough money to buy two bowls of-”

“I’m footing the bill.” Junko showed her purse in response.

“...Alright.”

[ The two let the taxis pass by and go on foot to the Korean diner. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZL_i8x48Hw) Junko felt infinitely more secure with Muku-chan around and was eager to immerse herself in Ikebukuro nightlife. Mukuro would want to glance around shops and stores, marking them to memory to familiarize herself with the city.

Besides, there were street lights that illuminated their way and served as impromptu spotlights. Fellow travelers whose footfalls provided the percussion for the grand Ikebukuro orchestra. Cooing pigeons played the trumpets, beeping car horns the violins, and chattering pedestrians the double bass. Junko looked at a few children from a distance knocking over a trash can and rummaging what they can from it. Mukuro observed a young girl clinging to her male companion, perhaps waiting for a taxi.

For the two sisters, a woman stopping by for a smoke, an old man with his earphones on, a young man tapping away at his phone, and a host of other actors, the city’s blinding skyline provided the perfect backdrop for the show that was urban life.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going, Muku-chan?” Junko asked, stopping by a food cart to buy some _gyoza_. “It’s probably in another city.”

“We just crossed two blocks, sis. But if we keep going, we could reach it by 10:00 P.M.” Mukuro felt her pockets for her things and thieves’ hands she’d break. “We’ll never get lost thanks to this map.”

“Sure, sis.” Junko flicked a dumpling at her mouth and walked on.

They passed by the English-language school, then the soccer store. They cut through a line of people on the fortune-telling booth. A young man in dreadlocks offered them a glimpse of their future. Despite his offers of a 40% discount, then 45%, 50%, 60%, the two ignored him. “ _Ooooh, rubbing a crystal ball and predicting favorable situations that can happen to anyone. Anyone can do that parlor trick, but only very few can match my gift.”_ He didn’t seem like a telepath, but she could only think of what he’d scream if he read her mind.

The hairstylist from the salon waved at them to no response. An old, bearded man begged them for spare change, only for Junko to throw chewed bubblegum at the ground. 

On and on they went. They passed the city library, the cramming school,  the street performer pretending he’s stuck in a glass cell, and an abandoned apartment said to be a gang hideout for about seven times in a loop before they realized it. “You said we won’t get lost. What does this look like?” Junko remarked.

“The- the tourism office said this map was the latest one they had…” Mukuro showed her the Ikebukuro map complete with drawn-over directions and location marks. 

“Moron, have you looked at the lower left? This was made years ago!

”I’ll get the updated version, sis.” Mukuro requested. 

“Do you even know where the tourist office is?” Junko never trusted Muku-chan’s sense of direction, and their current status confirmed it. “You’ll probably wind up at the toilet museum instead.”

“I don’t think it’s far from here, actually,” Mukuro answered. “Just a few streets and we’re-”

“Fine, we’ll ask the locals.”

Heading to the alley near an ice cream vendor, Junko’s eyes met with four men standing around. The beanie hat man with a brown long-sleeved polo was conversing with a blue shirt-wearing guy shorter than him. She didn’t know the subject yet, but her intuition gambled the answer as ‘relationships’. The muscled punk with the shades crossed his arms and the acne-covered teenager peeked at the model lustily from time to time. She wasn’t surprised by the swelling in his pants.

“Hi!” Flashing her trademark smile, Junko’s diction switched to her ‘pretty but lost tourist girl’ mode. “How do we get to the Korean diner? Are we close?”

Just as she finished asking, the four men huddled together and began whispering to each other. None of her ears picked up what the words were, but she knew they had much more in mind than simply point them the directions. The pimply teen pointed at Junko often, and the guy with the shades tapped the two near to him in the back.

“Yeah, if you’re up to something, well let me tell you this:” This is a shakedown, Junko knew it, but she has her best shot with her in times like this. “My sis has served a shit ton of tours in the Middle East and-”

“Is that you, _the_ Junko Enoshima?”

“Never thought you’d come to this part of town, of all places.”

“Can I have a selfie with you? Pretty please with meringue and peanut butter splattered all over?”

“Hey, sexy! What are ya doing this time of night?”

As a celebrity, Junko learned to tell sincere compliments from flattery. Fans who did nothing but regurgitate positive things to her were only in it to not look like outcasts. Small-time influencers who suddenly got popular and spammed her multiple DM’s surely paid for fake followers to inflate their fame and only deserve to be ghosted unless she needed something from them. 

But these four strange men didn’t appear like they were mere hangers-on and ass kissers. Were they genuine ‘chivalry isn’t dead’ types who’d do anything for a woman? Opportunistic vipers looking for a wad of money in return, or a one-night pleasure-fest? Or were those words of praise verbal chloroform before they pick them clean of their valuables? The shrill whistles aimed at her indicated the latter options. Mukuro had to have her concealed knife with her when she went to the studio.

“I’d loooove to take pics with you guys, but I and my sis’ stomachs are like growling dogs, and I don’t like you guys getting mauled.” Junko’s next course of action was more… diplomatic. “But yeah, I’d love to hang out with you - maybe at the Korean resto. You guys know where it is? Food and drinks are on us.”

“Eunjung loved it, remember?” The beanie man smirked at his toned acquaintance. “Daiji, Daiji, be a gentleman for once and-”

“We’re not talking about her, Sadao! Besides, Korean food tastes like dried shit and I’d rather eat somewhere else.” Daiji berated. “Didn’t we agree on it a week ago?”

“Damn right.” The acne kid raised his face his left hand to his cheek, but then crossed his arms and scowled at the sisters as he tried to stand over them. “Besides, this is Dollars territory. Pay up, and you pretty things’ll walk out without stitches!”

“What did you say again? I can’t hear you from below the tree.” Junko giggled. “I’m just not fond of rabid chipmunks.” 

“You think we’ll give you a pass just cause I have, uh, all your magazines at home…” The other three stared at the teen. Daiji tried to contain himself from laughing, his mouth ending up as a smirk. “...to remind myself of the ideal lady I work damn hard to get?” He then turned to his companions. “Come on, she’s gotta be a 9 or a 10 by your standards!” 

“She’s a 5 in mine,” The well-built man’s gruff voice showed Hotaka’s how to pass off as a tough guy. “Take off the makeup and camera filters? You get a typical ganguro girl from Raira, not even the naturally-hot one.”

Junko kept up her facade, but behind her cover-worthy smile and sparkling eyes was a completely blank response. The brute wouldn’t last a day without his potato chips, yet She’s seen this comment from a hundred haters already and wished he went for the jugular, metaphorically and/or literally. The sight of Hotaka’s flimsy excuse falling through and Daiji mocking him while Sadao filmed the whole thing was a good appetizer, though. 

“Awwwww… and I thought you knew where the restaurant is.” Junko said. “Guess we’ll be on our way-”

“This is the wrong street, miss. It’s on the corner of Gekijo-dori Street and the way going to Nishi-Ikebukuro Park. There’s a shortcut, though.” Sadao put his phone down and pointed at the alley near a telephone pole. Curiously, it was devoid of slackers or teenagers passing the time: dumpsters and trash bags sat along the passage while doors and windows hung around. Most of them were closed, save for one window where the lights were on. “I and Chikao can accompany you there.” 

Chikao, the muscle-man, agreed. “If none of you guys will go, I will. A few guys at the chat loved the diner’s _deok-bokki_ , and I want to try it out for myself.”

“I-I changed my mind, you gals don’t need to pay the Dollar toll. Just this once, alright?” Hotaka tried to save face. 

“Gee, thanks, guys! Let’s be on our way.” Junko smiled. “Food and drinks are on me!”

While they were crossing the alley, Junko saw an arm with a handkerchief come out for a split-second. The handkerchief smelled like brown sugar but dipped in a vat of various chemicals. Her eyes grew heavy and she felt like the world turned slightly clockwise. Realizing the chemical, she quickly turned her head away from the arm and plugged her nostrils to prevent herself from inhaling more.

She then turned at the four men arguing among themselves. 

“...that’s how it happens in the movies, dammit! Who knew chloroform doesn’t work like that? I sure as hell don’t!” Hotaka snapped. 

“Ever Googled it once in your life?” Sadao kept his stern voice. “I said it before, it takes more than 5 minutes to knock someone out. You just strong-armed me into your ‘brilliant’ plan.”

“Is this your best prank?” Junko commented. “[ Let me give you a short chemistry lesson. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EF8lbBkfW8A)”

“Sorry, _sensei_ ”, Chikao brought out his brass knuckles. “I’m more of a P.E. genius.”

“Thanks for the comment, you gym rat. Anyway, as I was saying-” Mukuro zoomed into Chikao’s side and kicked the brass knuckles from his palms as he attempted to put them on. The knuckles propelled into a storm drain, falling into the sewers below. 

“The chemical name for chloroform is trichloromethane. Formula - CHCl₃.” Daiji’s stun gun narrowly missed Mukuro’s waist mid-activation, only for the soldier to hit his left arm, turning the taser around to his own elbow. The Dollar writhed as his left arm turned numb, his stun gun’s spark the last sound he heard before collapsing.

“It’s made up of chlorine and methane. Chlorine kills bacteria it touches, including the pesky .01% soaps can’t kill.” Not one to surrender, Chikao lunged himself into Mukuro like a speeding truck only to uppercut a lamp post. Fortunately for him, it was sturdy enough to withstand him. He was no Shizuo Heiwajima, and that feat landed him minutes of wrapping his bloody right fist.

“Methane, on the other hand? It’s used everywhere: fuels, grills, even fertilizer.” Hotaka slowly backed away from the soldier, his right hand in his back pocket searching for his throwing knife. Feeling its sweaty handle, the acne-covered teen tossed the knife at Mukuro’s head. Sensing the projectile in mid-air and it would land, she intercepted the knife like a fielder catching a baseball. Realizing he had no options left, Hotaka raised his hands and begged her to spare him and his friends. Sadao took the hint and ran as far as he could.

“Buuuuut there’s also its most common producer: cow manure. In layman terms: _bullshit_.” Chikao kicked the unconscious Daiji in the shoulder to no response. “Don’t just lay on the ground! Get ‘em, you boneless sacks of flesh!” Hotaka shrieked to his men a few seconds after his ‘surrender’.

“A good way to describe your absolute joke of a ‘plan’, frankly. Where did you get that chemical?” Junko continued her lesson-slash-taunt. “Actually, don’t answer that. But I do think tonnes of toilet paper were involved.”

She didn’t notice the same arm who tried to knock her out earlier hand Hotaka a pistol. The teen’s hands started shaking as if he lifted a 20-pound dumbbell and unloaded a shot at the dumpster trying to hold the handle straight. Cursing to himself, he took a deep breath, lifted the pistol with all his strength and aimed it at Junko’s head. 

“Don’t move, you black-haired jarhead! Or this whore gets it!” Hotaka yelled. 

During his struggles to raise his gun, Junko’s prying eyes meticulously analyzed every possible event that could occur in that scenario. She took into account how mear the gun is at her head, the wind’s direction and speed, how many times Hotaka’s hands shivered and how many times he tried to steel himself. 

_Chances of shooting me in the right hemisphere: 39.84%._

_Chances of missing and hitting my right cheek or upper lip or hyoid bone: 58.12%._

_Chances of missing me entirely and hitting something or someone else: 77.93%._

“You see, I saw you coming from a kilometer away. I wish I was surprised at how you still went through it like I’m some naïve girl out at night.” Junko said, ignoring the gun in front of her. “You gave the orders; didn’t you, Hotaka-kun?”

“I-I sure did! Excuse my idiotic henchmen, they’re just like dinosaurs chilling near the meteor that’ll kill them.” Hotaka spat at the ground.” But I got you in the end, so it all worked out-“

He didn’t get to finish gloating as Mukuro grabbed the pistol from his hands at near-lightning speed. The hunter had become the prey, and she fired at Hotaka without hesitation.

When she expected a loud bang, she heard a soft click instead. [“What?” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zpPnEwZiDno)The soldier uttered in disbelief.

“Gun’s empty now.” Chikao came from behind and wrapped his arms around Junko’s neck. She sank her teeth into his forearm, but she still felt wind escape her lungs. She poked and prodded and pricked every area her hands can reach and the thug only tightened his grip on the model more. Her neck placed inside an unbreakable vice, croaky cries for help came out of her mouth as she shook and trembled in agony.

Muku-chan winded up and flung the throwing knife like a speeding bullet. The projectile pierced the brute’s left hand, and Chikao kept choking the life out of her beloved sister with his right. 

This was probably it. To think her grand plans for this city, this country and the whole wide world would be stopped by this savage strangling her to the hottest layer in hell. All for some night’s walk to a shitty restaurant with a shitty twin! God, she wished her vocal cords weren’t so squeezed so she would scream! Not in pain, the hell with that, but in pure delight!

“ _Kyaa~! Choke me harder, daddy! Knock the fuckin’ air out of me until I pass out or away! No hard feelings at all!_ ” Had the Dollars gave her an opportunity to say her last words, they’ll be nothing but words of gratitude for this one-of-a-kind experience. Thanking him for releasing her from this pitiful coil into a fun-filled afterlife. She closed her eyes and smiled for what possibly was the last time she did any of these things…

“Last goddamn chance, bitch! Pay us our due or he’ll snap, crackle, and pop her shiny neck!” He then turned to Mukuro, his eyes searing red. “You move or do anything funny; forget snapping, he’ll rip her neck in two! You hear it; _two_!”

This was Hotaka’s moment. Gone would be the days of butt shoves and “Kick Me” signs in class. Gone would be the days of pranks and dislikes he received online on a daily basis. He will no longer be Hot Garbage Hotaka. 

Hotaka saw himself in his mind’s eye sitting on the couch on Monday Night. Arisawa enthralled with his bold story of forcing gang bosses to lick his boots and hand him a million yen. His girlfriend, Sayaka Maizono, entrancing the crowd with her group Crane Generation’s hit song, _Sky Blue Canvas_. The first bouts of his newfound infamy built on the tears of the Junkommittee. 

Mukuro stood frozen, unable to raise a fist or a gun. The Dollars weren’t bluffing this time around; she knew they would make good on their threat once they saw a muscle twitch. While she remained in place, unbridled rage mixed with the fear inside of her, the anger spewing out visions of these monsters beaten and battered until no one would recognize their remains. 

Acting out these impulses would’ve meant separation between them for good, and she refused to risk that. She could commence nuclear option, but it would’ve been impossible to hold herself back and do more collateral damage. Shame. Left with little moves, she raised her hands. There’s still another day for fighting and eating. But her unwavering glare for the four men never subsided, and she made it clear that her surrender was not for her own sake or theirs’. It was all for who she took the metaphorical bullet for.

Me.

* * *

[Truthfully, I wasn’t having any of your war movie posturing.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wSYwqbp4S4) Why jump in front of the grenade to save your comrades, when you can throw it back to a cadet you hated? At least you won’t be alone on your trip to the afterlife if there is one. 

Not to get sidetracked, the Dollars doofuses threw Morton’s fork right in our faces. Your fingers budge ever so slightly, and off I go to oblivion! I try to gouge his eyes out, same damn thing! But if you lay yourself bare for them and hand them all your money, our self-respect will kick us in the teeth and these four schmucks could do whatever they want. Damned if you did and didn’t, my kind of style.

_(“I… I knew no tactics left, how could I know that pistol had only one bullet?”)_

_Kurobuta_ -chan, remember the first rule of gun safety, “treat all guns as loaded”? You forgot rule 1.5: “...unless the person willing to destroy you gives his.” Nah, just made that up. Not that you’d know it.

Chikao’s chokehold, oooh, alliteration; I remember it fondly. A huge, sweaty arm around your windpipe like a snake, your lungs’ air fleeing your body but unable to breathe in more, your mouth gurgling attempting to catch your breath… I felt heaven’s arms hugging me! My _saudade_ problem finally answered!

_(“Were you satisfied? You could’ve died and I would never, ever forgive myself for it.”)_

Too bad for both of us.  

_(*sigh*)_

Try using a napkin next time, you slob. Your sauce stains knocked me out of my story.

_(“Sure, sis.”)_

Where was I again… hmmm?

* * *

“You have us.” Clearing her breath, Mukuro’s arms stood up. “Are you satisfied?”

“I’m grinning my face off, you black-haired bitch!” Hotaka responded with the one-finger salute. “All you had to do was pay the damn toll, and none of this would happen!”

The soldier swallowed her rage. “Hold on. I want to make one request: release Junko from your grasp. Do so much as pinch her and I cancel the deal.”

“What just happened…” Daiji mumbled, staring at his surroundings before trying to raise himself. “Did we win? Where’s Sadao? Does Tanaka know?...”

“We just won, you dumb sleeper!” Chikao exclaimed, dropping Junko. Almost a black blur, Mukuro rushed into her side to catch her. Noticing the bluish hued around her face, she pushed and pushed at her chest hard for a whole minute. She pressed her mouth into hers and blew into her airways after a hundred pushes. “So you’ll give us all your money? Not just the tiny purse for desperate folks.”

While doing so, faint rage remained in her eyes. “Agreed.” 

The two huddled together. Their whispers did not escape the soldier’s earshot, as she picked up on their hushed talking. Hotaka mentioned something about Daiji’s phone running out of batteries, and how Sadao took the only functioning phone with him. Chikao sighed at a ‘wasted opportunity’ with Mukuro and requested a fair, one-bout hand-to-hand fight to bring more color to this night. 

Hotaka declining his request saved his life, but Chikao didn’t know it and kept demanding combat until he gave up. Once they finished their conversation, the two approached the sisters and made their demands.

“You said you’ll hand us both of your wallets.” Mukuro concurred and gave them what they want.

“Spare change, too.” Hotaka relished the jingles the coins made when Mukuro’s gloved hands dug deep in their pockets. Chikao stood guard, his fist raised against a surprise attack.

“I forgot. Remember when our friend here spared your precious sister? Mercy isn’t free, you know that. Most people abuse what’s given to them, and none of them know they break the hearts that showed mercy in the first place.”

Mukuro knew what he was talking about.

“I know that the moment you walk or run or leave our sights, your mouths will run along to everyone you meet. Cops, Yellow Scarves, even the goddamned Yakuza. You don’t know where we are, but thanks to your little gift,” The teen rubbed his stolen wallets on her face. “Sooner or later, we’re gonna pay you a visit. Trust me, Junko will beg for a hug from Chikao. Understood?”

[Before Mukuro could answer, a dot appeared from the road ahead.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vSM9YLonOog&list=PLJ4AmfoJ6Ba-huGyqQdzHRDkhpAqX8ady&index=11&t=0s) She dismissed it as a trick of her eyes until it grew larger. The dot hurtled toward them and it became obvious it was anything but. The black spot quickly sprouted a large, dark hook on the tip of the outstretched, shadowy line speeding from the road.

Before Hotaka could comment, his hairs stood on end as the ‘shadow’ snatched him and his belongings by the neck. Evaporated to muttering desperate prayers under his breath, he screeched for his friends, the Dollars and his mother to save him as darkness carried him away. The last thing Mukuro saw of the teen was his wet pants. Caught along with Hotaka, Chikao tried to snap the hook as hard as he could, but the darkness proved too sturdy for him to break. Tendrils erupted from the mysterious force and dragged Daiji along with his friends. As quickly as it appeared, the shadow hook receded into the dead of night.

Mukuro heard her share of stories from her fellow soldiers and NCO’s back in her day. A private blew off his legs after stepping on a landmine and lived the rest of his life in a wheelchair. A newly-promoted commando shot the brains out of a shepherd boy who they mistook as a child soldier. There was the urban legend of a team leader who discovered a village girl nailed into the local swing set, and no one knows what happened to the specialist responsible…

All those tales and more didn’t manage to unsettle her. Hearing and seeing them take place helped numbed her from war’s horrors. But even when the hook didn’t seize her or Junko, it wrecked Mukuro’s nerves of steel, who looked left, right and down for any shadow and holding her sister tight when they grow too big. This isn’t some CGI trick or a staged illusion, and she survived sleepless nights without seeing things. 

This must be it. The Grim Reaper hot at their tracks, seeking the two who have escaped his clutches for too long. Many questions filled her head: will he appear in the flesh; no, bone? Will he be kind enough to offer a second chance once they succeed in his challenge? Or will he skip the pleasantries and release his shadow hook again?

Whatever the answer was, Junko’s eyes opened. Her face’s bluish hue vanishing, her tired pangs of breath was more than welcome for Mukuro whose fingers never left her pulse.

“Where... are we?” Her sluggish pulse picked up the pace beat after beat until it regained its normal rhythm. “Where did the Dollars go?”

“You’re alive. That’s all that matters.” Junko’s voice was a sweet song in Mukuro’s ears. Her medium-high pitch covered the rage and dismay she felt from that terrible ordeal, and she desired more of her sister’s luscious words.

“Where’s my fucking wallet? How could you not get shot or blown up with that kind of attention span?!”

Mukuro thought of how to best summarize everything that happened when she was unconscious. The threat, the deal, the shadow hook… 

“By the way, that bastard’s hugged me in record time! Nine minutes and 53 seconds ahead of yours on your whole life! God, this day’s gone to shit and you have a part in it.”

Mukuro thought some more, but then a black blur emerging from the road caught her attention, far more massive than the dot she saw earlier. Accelerating toward them, the blur materialized into a pitch-black motorcycle and came to a screeching halt when it reached their alley. The bike’s exhaust emitted smoke that smelled like a mixture of diesel and digested hay. 

Seated was the same rider the policed chased earlier from earlier. Dark jumpsuit, yellow feline helmet… they had an unmistakable profile. On their hands was a black sphere where the wind passed through.

Mukuro’s heart raced, dreading at what they might do next. Junko’s eyes sparkled, her mind shuffling through endless possibilities.

Far from the scene was Sadao on his apartment two blocks from where they are, breathing a sigh of relief at seeing the rider.

“Are- are you the Grim Reaper? You gonna cut us to ribbons like you did to them?” Like a fangirl meeting her idol for the first time, Junko squealed. “Or you’ll give me a handy, dandy notebook where I write-”

[ Taken aback by the question, the rider pulled up her phone and typed away. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0y8jDyknsU) “I get that a lot nowadays, but of course not! Here are your belongings.” The black sphere levitated above the two before dissipating and dropping their wallets along with a barrage of clinking coins. “Try not to travel to unfamiliar areas at night next time.”

“So this means we’re going to the Korean diner, then?”

Before Mukuro finished her question, the rider sped away, its screeching tires coinciding with the sound of a hundred hooves galloping at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no upload.
> 
> Not that I gave up on the story, but I had a lot of responsibilities to do during the 5-month delay, and as my apology, I present a day in the life of the Queen of Desp- erm, Fashion.
> 
> "Why are the Dollars portrayed here assholes?" Yes, the Dollars don't exclusively contain people like Hotaka, but a massive Internet-only group would have bad apples roaming around. Plus, they're not blind to these types.
> 
> Please leave comments if you're interested, and thank you for still tuning in, readers!


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